


when you can't get away

by spendon



Category: Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Album), My Chemical Romance
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-17
Updated: 2017-06-17
Packaged: 2018-11-15 08:22:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11227074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spendon/pseuds/spendon
Summary: After three days without sleep, Ghoul finds his past catching up with him again.





	when you can't get away

_ Don’t do it, _ Ghoul had told himself, his eyesight blurring as he squinted in the darkness. The diner was absolutely silent save for snoring (Jet) and quiet breaths (everyone else). Outside, the night sky was reminiscent of paint being splattered across a canvas, except with a deep black background and a handful of stars. The moon was a crescent, and when Ghoul looked down at his arms from where he was digging his fingernails into his skin, the indentations sunk into his flesh reminded him of it.

 

He looked up from his arms to the people around him. For a moment, they were nameless, faceless, but after a good minute of squinting dumbly at a mess of curls and heavy snoring (Jet, again), Ghoul remembered that this was his family. There was Poison, with his hair spilling all around his head, bright red and standing out even in the dark. Kobra, curled up beside him, face pressed into Poison’s arm. Their chests were rising and falling in an even, perfectly synced pace. He couldn’t help but crack a grin at that. Then there was the Girl, nestled up with a thick blanket, her arms curled up around the edge of her pillow.  _ Witch, give her sweet dreams, _ he thought idly.  _ She’s done nothing to wrong you. _

 

Through the thick haze of days without sleep, Ghoul’s senses were beginning to sharpen. He could hear the ticking of the old John Wayne clock that Pony had found at Tommy’s shop and decidedly hung it up in the main room.  _ “It’s an antique,” _ he had claimed, when Cherri questioned him as he was hanging it up.  _ “John Wayne was a classic, anyways. You just wouldn’t understand, Cherri. You don’t have such fine tastes like myself.” _

 

_ Tick. Tick. Tick. _ The sound was unnerving to Ghoul, the passing of time. He counted in his head every second that went by, a steady  _ tickticktickticktick. _ It was taunting.  _ Tick. _ He thought about how many days he had gone without sleep, now.  _ Three, _ he reminded himself, without losing count of each second.  _ Three days, I haven’t slept in three days now, can’t let it happen now. Can’t lose the streak now. _

 

Despite this, there was still a wave of exhaustion hovering above his shoulder, waiting for the right moment to strike. The edges of Ghoul’s vision were creeping black, little dark tendrils blocking his peripherals. He could feel the strain in his eyes as he focused in and out of a glass set on top of a table opposite of him. Something inside his mind told him that he should worry about the dark figures he saw moving in the background, but with the tempting lull at sleep toying with his brain and swirling behind his eyelids, he couldn’t bring himself to care.

 

_ Tick. Tick. Tick. _ He shook his head, lips curving into a sneer as he tried not to think about how long he’d been in the desert.  _ Years, probably. _ He paused.  _ I wonder how old they are. _ Almost instantly, he had mentally punched himself in the gut, inhaling sharply.  _ I wonder if she misses me. _

 

Ouch.  _ I wonder if they remember me. _ Stop.  _ I wonder if they even cared. _ Don’t.  _ They didn’t. None of them feel love. They don’t know, I just left them, I didn’t even say goodbye, she doesn’t even fucking know that I- _

 

He winced, shaking his head, taking a heavy breath, and looked over at the Girl apologetically.  _ I love you, Gracie, _ he thought fiercely.  _ I fucking love you. Nothing that happens will change that. I will protect you to the ends of the Earth. _

 

Ghoul hadn’t noticed when sleep finally snatched him away, at his most vulnerable moment, when he was letting time catch up to him. It was only natural.

 

The first thing he felt were nails digging into his sides.

 

It had taken him a moment to register them as his own, and he withdrew his hands, staring down at his palms. They were stained red, a familiar but still nauseating sight, and sticky when he clenched his hands together. He felt his gut drop.

 

Before him was a white hood with the BL/Ind logo plastered across its front, pushed back off the face of someone who he was constantly trying to forget, uncovering his face but leaving his scalp hidden. Tufts of black hair spilled out of edge, twirling in each direction, curls bouncing with every step the figure took. It was more of a stagger, really, and his outstretched arms came towards Ghoul. His hands, reaching for him, changing from an open palm to a claw.

 

He stared into the dead eyes of his former partner. His partner stared back, slow, zombie-like. All that Ghoul could do was stumble back when he unwillingly reached for his blaster, and settle into a new familiar setting.

 

At first, it was dark. He furrowed a brow, trying to make sense of what was going in, before his mouth went dry. The air was cold, stagnant and stale. A dripping sound went  _ plink -- plink -- plink _ somewhere in the corner of the room, the warehouse, and as his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, he could make out white pipes scaling the ceiling, and vents all the way at the top.

 

_ “You thought you could run,” _ hissed a voice, accusing and low and painstaking.  _ “You thought you were doing the right thing. You’ve never been more wrong in your entire life. And I thought that you were such a genius, I thought-” _

 

“I thought I was, too,” Ghoul said simply. He could never have as much truth in his voice again as he did now. There was a bitter taste in his mouth. Venomous. 

 

The spindly man in front of him - Ghoul’s mind tried to search for a name, digging uselessly, why  _ wouldn’t _ he remember him, it was just fucking  _ Korse _ \- held a blade very loosely by the hilt in front of him, dangling it in front of him. If he focused, he could make out his reflection in it.

 

His eyes, oh, his eyes. They were sunk into his face, deep, sullen bags of restlessness formed beneath them. His entire complexion had thinned since coming to the desert, his skin just a ways away from dangling off his bones. A nose ring, a lip ring gleamed in the mirror of the knife. He laughed helplessly, desperately, at the sight of himself, so pathetic and ruined and  _ broken _ from leaving the city.  _ There’s no place like fuckups for me in the city  _ or _ the zones, _ he thought bitterly. Apparently, he had spoken his mind out loud, because the crooked smile Korse was giving him sent a chill down his spine.

 

_ “You’re right,” _ he spoke, so much like a snake that Ghoul wanted to step on his neck and watch him writhe underneath his boot, spitting venom and lashing helplessly.  _ That’s fucked up, _ he had to tell himself,  _ you’re fucked up. _

 

_ “There’s nowhere for you to run to, I told you that. You might be apart of these zones, Frank Iero, but there will never be a place for you to dig yourself a home. Do you ever wonder why I don’t just kill you already?” _

 

“I don’t know who that is,” he said through gritted teeth, his blood running cold.  _ He’s dead, didn’t you hear? They broadcasted it all across the city. _

 

_ “Because I want to see you rot here. As easy as it’d make things to just kill you right now, while you’re restrained and without your ugly little rat family, it’s much more fun to see you realize how much you messed things up for yourself. How much you despise yourself.” _

 

Ghoul looked up from the blade, at Korse’s wicked smile.  _ You look like Voldemort, _ Ghoul thought very pointedly at him, and laughed hoarsely.

 

He was abruptly cut off by a sear of pain stinging in his cheek. He practically howled as his back landed in the sand, the soft, soft sand. With his mouth open, the pain only seemed to worsen. Ghoul clenched his jaw shut, a shriek emitting from his throat instead, writhing on the ground. There was blood, thick in his mouth, dripping on the sand and staining it a dark red. It was already all over his vest, his bandana, his hands.

 

A leather boot connected with his stomach. It took all of his willpower not to yowl in pain again, eyes scrunching shut. There was only room for labored breathing in his lungs, quick and shallow. Ghoul’s body shook with pain that stung through each and every one of his nerves, his mind trying to fling reassuring memories to calm him down when his brain was screaming at him about the nonstop pain the right side of his face.

 

_ “You motherfucker!” _ Ghoul heard distantly, and then the  _ zing! _ of a ray gun going off. Then there was a body at his side, there was red hair dangling in his face, an  _ “oh fuck, Jess, c’mere, look at him - ” _ and a  _ “jinkies, I didn’t even know Dracs  _ carried _ knives,” _ possibly a  _ “do you think he’ll-” _ before the air filled with smoke.

 

His lungs were burning, his eyes were stinging, and his ears were soundless except for the steady flatline ringing in his ears. He pushed himself up from the ground onto his hands and knees, crawling through the thick smoke until he had found himself shelter against a hot rock, straining his throat despite the drying pollutant in the air to call for his teammates.

 

“Jet,” he thought he’d said, and came fruitless. “Jet,” he tried again, his voice rougher - at least, he could only tell by the way his throat stung. He cycled through the names over and over again, panic finding a way into his chest. He coughed, sputtered, and clutched himself tightly, squeezing his eyes shut, tearing up from how badly they stung.

 

Hands on him again. There were hands on him again, and the first reaction was to lash out, his knuckles colliding into a shoulder. The hands shook him desperately. Ghoul flung his eyes open, squinting blearily at the face in front of him.  _ Jet, Jet, Jet. _

 

Jet was mouthing something, his brow furrowed. The smoke was beginning to clear. Jet looked over his shoulder at Kobra, expressionless behind his sunglasses until a worried frown stitched itself together, brows knitting. The two kept mouthing something at each other, and at Ghoul, and all Ghoul could do was sit as his chest kept getting tighter and tighter and tighter. Like there were hands on his throat, stopping his breathing, squeezing. The same black that had crept at his peripherals when he was in a haze of sleeplessness was beginning to poke at his vision again.

 

Ghoul didn’t like to cry. He hardly ever cried - after everything that had happened, it was just hard to faze him. He hadn’t cried in a long time.

 

That changed, as soon as he was presented with two little girls in front of him. The room was white, with black table tops, and pearly white furniture contrasted by black blankets. The two girls -  _ his _ two girls, dressed in their uniforms. Black skirts that went down to their knees, a white shirt, a gray blazer with a tiny black tie. Knee-high socks, white with a black stripe at the rim, and black flats. One had black hair cascading down to the small of her back, while the other had a dark brown shade, chopped just below her ear. They were pictures of beauty - and he was in tears.

 

_ “Come back,” _ they whimpered in unison. Ghoul reached for them, time seeming to have slowed. He was dressed in his own uniform - a white button up and black tie, black pants. But as he reached for them, those clothes wisped away, strand by strand. They stitched themselves back together, into his gloves, his vest, one of his t-shirts. 

 

_ I’m not a father, _ he told himself, trembling, feeling sick to his stomach.  _ These aren’t my girls. I don’t know who they are. _

 

Another stream of tears rolled down his cheeks. He gasped, sinking down to his knees, clutching his stomach, trying to curl in on himself as tightly as he could.  _ They will never know what happened to me. _ He was shaking again, being shook, by intruding hands -  _ get the fuck away from me, don’t touch me, I’ll just hurt you too - _ invasive -  _ you don’t know what kind of poison you’re messing with _ \- soft -  _ you don’t know what I can do to you  _ \- reassuring -  _ please just save yourself and let me go. _

 

His eyes snapped open, eyes wide. Sweat dripped from his forehead, plastering his clothes to his skin. His eyes were misty. Ghoul took a moment to place himself back in reality,  _ this is waking up, I’m awake, that was nothing - just a dr- nightm- dream, nothing. _ He reached up to his ears, clicking on his hearing aids.

 

“Ghoul,” came the soft voice of Poison. He was peering at Ghoul with concerned eyes through his ruby red hair, attempting and failing to blow it out of his face. The hands on his arms, right at the crook of his elbows, were familiar. The touch of Poison’s knees to his was familiar.

 

Ghoul didn’t like hugs, didn’t like touching just as much as he didn’t like crying, but that didn’t stop him from sinking forward and slumping into Poison, exhaling. Poison’s arms came up around him, a warm hand pressing against his back.

 

“I know,” Poison murmured soothingly, closing his eyes. Ghoul rested his chin on Poison’s shoulder, sighing softly. “I know, Ghoul.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> oh BOY i haven't written in FOREVER  
> i wrote this a couple of months ago, i think in october or something, only just dug it up in my drive lol


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